


Arbitration Clause

by rillrill



Series: Best of Enemies [1]
Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, Hate Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 19:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6671215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’d hate himself if he hadn’t just gotten exactly what he needed.</i>
</p><p>Spite and deep-throating, heavy on the spite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arbitration Clause

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece of sorts to [Treacherous](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4294656). Technically it could take place at any point during that story's timeline. Not that it matters, but, y'know, no plot to be had here. So.

“You look nervous.” Gavin's hand tangles in his hair, stroking softly, thick fingers toying with the short strands at the nape of his neck. “Don't be nervous.”

Richard's jaw clicks when he opens his mouth to answer, and again as he closes it: a short, taut nod just about suffices. _Nervous_ is the wrong word, what he's feeling. He should be used to this. He _is_ used to this. The ride up the rollercoaster, the spike of fear before the adrenaline kicks in. Climbing up the cliff before diving off.

“Have you ever heard of Skylen Stewart?” he asks instead, and Gavin gives him an odd little look.

“The name rings a bell.”

Gavin's unbuttoning his own shirt now, the movements nimble and sharp, which Richard watches with immense focus. It dulls the nerves, slightly, to have Gavin undressing while he is still clothed. It's not entirely pleasant. He wants the sharp edge back, but doesn't move; it will happen in time. 

Instead, he answers the unspoken question. “He was an extreme sports guy. Freestyle snowboarding, BASE jumping. Shaun White meets Jackass. Erl— _my friend_ was a fan.”

“Was.” Gavin clicks his tongue with vague interest. “Given that Mr. Bachmann is still among the living, I take your phrasing to mean that what's-his-name is not.”

“He died trying to snowboard out of a helicopter.” Richard lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug as Gavin undoes the last of his shirt buttons, leaving the button down lying open over his white undershirt. Richard licks his lips. Gavin is solid, taller than he is without an ounce of flab. Powerful, in a way that makes him ache very slightly to be overpowered, under the circumstances.

“I see,” Gavin says as he shrugs out of his shirt, letting it slither to the floor as Richard watches, trying not to let on that he's a little bit spellbound. “And this has to do with... what, exactly?”

Richard closes his eyes, shakes his head as he tries to sort out the words. “You telling me not to be nervous,” he says quickly. “I prefer it. Like I always wonder if that guy knew he was going to die. He'd gotten hurt a bunch of times. He told everyone he was scared about it. But then he was also, like, 'Fuck it. I'm going to snowboard out of the helicopter anyway.' That's what this is.”

“You see certain death as an inevitable aspect of our — arrangement?” Gavin's voice is amused and skeptical and from the clanking of his belt buckle, Richard can tell he's started on his pants.

“I see death as an inevitable aspect of life in general.”

“Fair enough.” The hand is back, sliding through his hair, thumb sliding over the plane of his cheekbone. “Look at me.”

Richard forces his eyes open. Gavin is tense, his jaw set, an irascible meanness setting into his face. A suave, subtle shift that makes Richard shudder just a little, sets the tension under his skin crawling like fire ants. He doesn't like this man. He doesn't like him and the omnipresent ball of fire in his gut, the anger that erupts in the worst of situations, doesn't like him either.

Gavin likes him more than he likes Gavin, which isn't saying much, but it brings Richard some sort of reassurance anyway. An upper hand, of sorts. Gavin traces his thumb over his cheekbone again, mockingly reverent. “What do you want, Richard?” he asks, condescending and cool. “Tell me what you want.”

Richard rolls his eyes. Not in the mood for dirty talk. As if he ever is. “Fuck me.”

“Ask me nicely,” Gavin instructs.

“Fuck _you_.” Gavin slaps him for that, not hard enough to do anything other than stun, really, but it's enough; Richard rears back, blinking.

“Oh.”

Gavin regards him coolly. "Too much?"

" _Fuck_ , no." Richard leans back on the heels of his hands, fingers digging into the duvet. Above him, Gavin cocks a brow, slowly shaking his head.

“I don't want to be mean to you,” Gavin says slowly. Lying through his teeth, Richard can tell, but it's at least a halfway effort. “I want us to be able to put our differences aside. You want that? You want to be good for me, Richard, I know that. You always did.” Gavin's voice is cold and clinical, and it's distressing to Richard, how soothing he finds it. It gives him something solid, something to brace against as he readies himself for the onslaught. 

Richard swallows, shifting on the bed. Gavin kicks the pants puddled on the floor away, one hand drifting to the erection tenting his boxer briefs. “Be mean,” Richard says, blinking. “I w— _need_ you to be mean.”  
  
(Because it’s the only thing that makes sense, the only reason he’s here; if he wanted someone to treat him like a marshmallow Peep made of spun sugar and say only kind, praiseful things, all he’d have to do is give Jared the go-ahead. Because he didn’t show up to Gavin’s house tonight at the usual time to pretend he wants anything but something cold and mean and rough. Because his company is a dumpster fire and he has no idea where he’ll end up next week or the week after, but Gavin, at least, is a grounding force. A constant. They may not respect each other, but they’ll give each other what they need.)  
  
Gavin grabs him by the chin, grips his jaw hard and tilts his face up. “Say please.”  
  
“Please, Mr. Belson.”  
  
“Again.”  
  
“Please. Sir.”  
  
“Again.”  
  
“Please. You know what I want.” Richard’s voice climbs higher with each word, frantic and reedy. Gavin’s got one hand in his hair, the other on his jaw, and his voice is so smooth like this, whisper soft with a razor’s edge, all cheekbones and eerily smooth skin. He’s so tall from down here, and Richard can feel his pulse hammering in his veins, but as Gavin stares him down, he doesn’t blink.  
  
Gavin’s mouth twists with something like amusement — mostly satisfaction, Richard thinks, as the hand on his jaw moves to his mouth, thumb brushing his bottom lip. Richard parts them, his blood thrumming with spite. He’s not desperate to please, not yet, but he could be.  
  
Gavin’s index and middle fingers slide into his mouth, past Richard’s parted lips, and then Gavin smirks again. “It is interesting,” he says, “that you think I plan to make this easy for you. When have I ever?” He pushes them in a little further, brushing the soft palate, and Richard gags but manages to hold them steady. The hand in his hair tightens, and Gavin smirks again. “You’re worth more than that, Richard,” he says. “You should know, by now, how much I like to see you struggle.”  
  
Richard gags again as Gavin’s fingers prod at the back of his throat. He balls his own hands into fists, squeezes down. Tears begin to prick at his eyes, but he’s determined to pass whatever test this turns out to be —  
  
Half a second later and Gavin’s hands are gone. Richard blinks hard; he watches Gavin slide his underwear down his thighs, freeing his erection. Gavin strokes himself a couple times and Richard licks his lips. Unconscious, not purposeful, but it doesn’t matter. Gavin notices, because there is little between them that Gavin doesn’t notice.  
  
“Have you been practicing?” It’s phrased like a question about work or the weather; Richard would flush from the real context if his capacity for embarrassment hadn’t been significantly eroded over the past several weeks. Instead he shrugs.  
  
“Kind of been busy.” He throws a little bit of venom into it, and Gavin rewards him with another smack across the face. Fair enough, he thinks, he’ll let Gavin have this one as that one heavy hand curls around the back of his neck, and Richard opens his mouth, sinks down on Gavin’s cock in one long, slick slide. Stutters as the head hits the back of his throat, but refocuses, sucks in as much air as he can, pushes past it.  
  
“Good.” Gavin’s voice is still ice cold. He’s got that hand in Richard’s hair, holding him steady, and the other on the back of his neck, and he’s pushing and pulling, moving Richard’s head as he pleases. Moving him bodily, not even bucking his own hips. Richard registers this from what feels like a vaguely out-of-body place; his cock throbs as he flattens his tongue against the bottom part of his mouth, frees up as much space as he can.  
  
Gavin pulls him off, looking vaguely dissatisfied. “ _Richard_ ,” he says, and Richard sucks in a harsh breath, reaching up with one hand to wipe the spit that has collected around his mouth. Gavin bats his hand away and pushes back into his mouth, and his face heats up as he slurps wetly around his length — his barrier for shame has been pushed back but not demolished. And then Gavin’s cock is nudging the back of his throat again, and Richard reaches out, grabs his thighs and digs his fingers into them. Struggles not to gag, tries to push past it, his throat working against him as it tries to close up.  
  
There’s more spit building, beginning to escape the corners of his mouth, and Richard squints his eyes closed as Gavin chuckles. “I love seeing you like this,” he mutters, low and taunting. Richard clenches his fingers harder around Gavin’s tense thighs, trying to mitigate the burning in his lungs, focus on anything else. “Big eyes and those pretty curls. It’s almost easy to forget what an ungrateful little fuck you are.”  
  
Richard’s throat convulses — he can’t talk back, can’t even moan, but he pushes down further on Gavin’s cock and swallows as much as he can. Gavin brushes at the tears streaming down his cheeks with one thumb. He’s lightheaded, his head is aching, but with one singular task to focus on — he’s locked in. He can deal. But Gavin pulls him off with another audible slurp, and Richard inhales as deeply as he can, the air hitting him like a drug.  
  
“Greedy.” Gavin’s voice is a little warmer, a little more indulgent now, as he runs his thumb down Richard’s face, smears the tears and saliva into a single slurry. “Greedy for air, for my cock, for _everything_. Could’ve just taken my ten million, but you had to have more, didn’t you?”  
  
Richard catches his breath, swallows. “Yeah.”  
  
“That’s what’s wrong with you. Entitled.” Gavin pushes back into Richard’s mouth, grabs his curls and holds him down as he keeps up this new tangent. “You think one idea entitles you to run a company. That’s not how it works. At your age, at Hooli, I had an idea every day. You know those patent cubes? Drawers full. Didn’t even keep them on the desk. Shelves would be overflowing.”  
  
Richard feels the fog starting to cloud over his brain again, feels the edges of his mind start to blur and his throat convulse around Gavin’s cock. The blood pounding in his ears threatens to drown out the lecture, and fuck, his cock is _throbbing_ , he wants to touch himself —  
  
He lets go of Gavin’s left thigh, reaches down to press the heel of his hand against his own erection, and that’s when Gavin yanks at his hair with both hands and comes down his throat.  
  
Richard coughs. He can’t stop coughing as Gavin pulls away. Normally he’d at least try to swallow gracefully, make as little of a deal about this as possible, but he can’t stop coughing and his eyes are streaming with tears and there’s spit all over his face and he can’t imagine how he must look to Gavin, who is watching him idly, chest heaving only a little from his orgasm.  
  
Thirty seconds goes by, honing in on a minute, before Gavin asks, “Are you — all right?”  
  
“Fine,” Richard splutters as he hacks the last of it into his elbow. Fuck, he hasn’t even taken off his oxford, but he feels _undone_ , he feels like a mess.  
  
Gavin tucks himself back into his boxer briefs, rests a hand on the back of Richard’s neck. “Do you want to come?” he asks. Not unkindly. There’s a strange softness to it, and this, Richard does not trust.  
  
But he’s not going to say no, so he nods and lets Gavin push him onto his back on the bed, kneeling atop him, hips bracketing Richard’s thighs with a predatory look in his eye. Gavin makes short work of his pants and boxers, pushing them down far enough to take Richard in hand. It takes all of six quick strokes before he’s close to the edge, his voice hoarse and eyes _still_ fucking tearing up, and — _fuck_ — he comes, nerves shredded and dissolving, gasping as he spills into Gavin’s hand.  
  
Richard clenches his jaw as Gavin looks at his hand with mild distaste. Closes his eyes. He feels Gavin drag that palm over his face, smearing it into the mess there, the spit and tears and come, and he doesn’t move, just opens his eyes again and stares up mutinously, every cell in his body vibrating with loathsome, shaking heat.  
  
“I have an early meeting,” he says as he rights himself. Yanks his pants back up. Doesn’t touch his face yet, though; even though his skin is starting to feel tight and itchy as the mess dries. “So.”  
  
“Clean yourself up on your way out,” Gavin instructs. Grabs a tablet from his bedside table and starts scrolling through it, attention already elsewhere. “Wipes are in the usual place.”  
  
“Nng.” Richard swallows his retort, but it comes out as an aborted little rage-snort. He clenches and unclenches his fists, shaking a little. “Next week, then. I guess.”  
  
“Mm.” And then Gavin is elsewhere, the meaning implicit: this meeting is over. And Richard swipes at the mess on his face with the back of his hand and stalks away.  
  
And he’d hate himself if he hadn’t just gotten exactly what he needed.


End file.
